The two friends had rapidly taken to their new abode (and indeed its glorious context); while even Caruso was proving less of a penalty than Cedric had feared, being on the whole fairly cooperative. Thus a few days into their sojourn they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast on the veranda before gathering themselves to visit the Frari, leaving the dog to dream of bones and arias in the autumn sun.
‘We don’t have to stay long,’ Felix said, ‘there’s so much stuff there it might be indigestible. I suggest we stagger our visits, just a bit at a time. Today could be a little aperitivo as it were.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Cedric, ‘but we must make time for the two great Titians. First things first. And then of course we might just glance at—’
‘The barber shop? What a good idea.’
Cedric was startled. ‘Er, I was going to say the Bellini Madonna and Child in the sacristy, but if you have a hankering for a haircut I suppose that must take precedence.’ He broke off and sighed. ‘Ah, light dawns: it’s not a hankering for a haircut as such but a yen to inspect the premises of the two gents we met in that bar last night. What were their names? Paolo and Pucci or some such. A bit Marx Brotherish I thought, especially the one with frizzy hair, a sort of taller version of Harpo.’ He gave a mild chuckle.
‘But you must admit they were very charming; and they did say we should drop in any time we were passing.’
‘But we shan’t be passing, the shop is in the opposite direction from the Frari.’
‘Oh only a few bridges away,’ Felix said dismissively, ‘and besides don’t you want some more of that Fontini cologne?’
‘I might.’
‘Good, that’s settled then: pictures then scent – or should that be pittore poi profumo?’ Felix leered and tilted his panama.
But their schedule was to be interrupted. As they approached the Accademia Bridge, seeking espressos prior to the Frari, Guy Hope-Landers came down the steps accompanied by a slim tawny-haired young woman, striking in cream Capri pants, matching ballerina pumps and cerise sweater. She was twirling a long cigarette holder and talking animatedly to her companion.
‘Ah,’ muttered Felix, ‘our fellow resident. Too early in the day for niceties, perhaps we can circumvent …’
‘Too late, he’s seen us. Prepare to charm.’ They composed their features.
Hope-Landers gave an expansive wave. ‘Hello,’ he exclaimed, ‘the custodians. All goes well I trust? No problems – escaping gas, escaping dog, boiler buggered?’
They assured him that everything was exactly as they might wish, and smiled politely at the lady.
The man launched into introductions. ‘This is Lucia Borgino,’ he explained, ‘granddaughter of the venerable Gideon Vaughan, he of the splendid Mayfair art gallery. Lucia has inherited his eye – always on the qui vive for new talent. And just like grandpa, a word from her can make or break any budding Picasso.’ He shot her a glance half mocking, half reverent.
The discerning Lucia gave a casual shrug, and, inserting a cigarette into her holder, observed that with so much dross flooding the market it was as well that somebody was prepared to take a stand. ‘Although actually,’ she confided, ‘it’s not so much the would-be Picassos that you have to watch but those dreary suburban flower painters whose pathetic offerings cram the Summer Exhibition year after year … God how I loathe vapid lilies, in whatever medium, alive or framed. They are always the same: pale, etiolated and totally uninteresting.’ She gave an affected sigh and with perfectly formed lips did a fair imitation of a Brigitte Bardot pout. Felix, who harboured a passion for lilies and a distaste for Miss Bardot, hated her immediately.
It was too bad of Cedric. But baulked of his morning caffeine and seeking alternative stimulus, he said casually, ‘Oh Felix adores lilies, an expert in fact. I can tell you that since our arrival the Palazzo Reiss has turned into a veritable giardino dei gigli; so fragrant, and the dog loves it. He and Felix visit the flower market every morning and come back laden with the things.’
Lucia raised an already perfectly arched eyebrow and, regarding Felix with polite disdain, remarked, ‘How quaint.’
There was a brief silence, during which a cat screeched and Felix scowled. And then Hope-Landers said, ‘As a matter of fact I was just telling Lucia about your friend and her quest for the Horace book. At least I assume that’s the one Mr Smythe was referring to yesterday, the Horation odes as edited by R. D. M. Bodger.’ (Felix nodded vaguely.) ‘Lucia thinks she might know the man who has it and could make an introduction.’
‘Oh really?’ Cedric replied with sudden interest. ‘That would be helpful. One gathers Miss Gilchrist is becoming just a mite agitato about the whole thing. Thinks she is letting her boss down if she returns to the BM empty-handed. Felix thought she was distinctly on edge about it. We will probably be seeing her from time to time so if the matter could be resolved it might be of universal relief. Wouldn’t you say so, Felix?’
But Felix, still stung by the attitude of the lily-hating Lucia, affected not to hear, being too engrossed in the scudding clouds over the dome of the distant Salute.
‘Well,’ Hope-Landers replied genially, ‘I daresay something can be arranged. We can probably fix a meeting with Carlo, assuming that he actually does have the thing. Not that that in itself means anything. By all accounts he can be quite tricky – well, according to Lucia he is.’
‘I didn’t say he was tricky,’ Lucia corrected him, ‘merely that he is fastidious as to whom he deals with.’ Her glance hovered briefly in the direction of Felix, and then addressing Cedric, she said, ‘I mean, what exactly is this lady like? Presumably she speaks Italian.’
‘Er, not as such,’ Cedric murmured, ‘but she is eminently respectable.’
Lucia grimaced. ‘How sad,’ she sighed. ‘No Italian and eminently respectable. What on earth is she doing in Venice?’
‘As explained,’ Cedric replied stiffly, ‘seeking the Horace – and like thousands of others with or without Italian, admiring its beauty.’ The acerbic note was familiar to Felix and he felt pleased with his friend. That should settle her hash, he thought.
It didn’t of course. Lucia Borgino emitted an indulgent laugh, and patting her companion’s arm said, ‘Oh well I expect I can fix something – anything for you, Guy darling. Now let’s get going, we’ve so much to do. Come on!’ Without another word she started to walk away.
Her escort gave an apologetic smile. ‘She’s right, we are rather pressed. Her brother is coming to stay. But don’t worry. She’ll fix it with Carlo all right.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Rather influential you know.’
‘How nice,’ said Cedric coolly.
‘Worry?’ Felix expostulated after they had gone. ‘Who said anything about being worried? Frankly I couldn’t care a damn about that beastly book. If Rosy Gilchrist imagines I have come to Venice to be patronised by the likes of Lucretia Borgia or whatever her name is, she has got another thing coming. Really, it is too—’
‘Be fair. Miss Gilchrist has never met the woman and she didn’t exactly arrange this encounter.’
‘No,’ Felix retorted, ‘and I don’t exactly take the dog to the flower market every morning. We have been once, that’s all!’
Cedric smiled. ‘Ah but doubtless you will cultivate the habit … Now, let us pursue our plans that were so tiresomely interrupted: a peek at the Frari followed by a delicious late luncheon at Alfredo’s; and then, who knows, perhaps a fragrant visit to the two Marx Brothers. What could be nicer?’